Rapture
by regie27
Summary: A quiet preshow warming up becomes more as Priss Asagiri reveals what is truly important for her.


----------------------------------------------

Rapture

A Bubblegum Crisis 2040 vignette by regie27

Standard Disclaimers apply

Beta reader: Carrie Asagiri

----------------------------------------------

The show was still hours away but the stage was already overflowing with music, music that poured from the heart meant to translate into an audible language the brewing emotions that emanated from the performer sitting on the beat-up folding chair that uneventful Friday afternoon.

The lights were dimmed; the ambiance at the usually loud and rowdy club was one of revered intimacy, one that beckoned the sole performer at center stage to open up her heart and soul through the chords that she deftly played on her guitar. Her trusted blue vintage Fender Stratocaster answered in turn to the ever so slight pressure of her calloused fingertips to the nylon strings against the frets. The Stratocaster knew all too well how to establish communion with her, their voices tuned in unison almost effortlessly, ready to conjure their enthralling alchemy one more time on their expectant audience. In a sense, her guitar knew her even better than her own bandmates. The instrument managed to do what no any living being had: it had penetrated her barriers, it had sunk into her core and it had witnessed the real her, the real Priscilla Asagiri, the person behind the façade of the vocalist, of the fierce Knight Saber, of the tough as nails survivor that roamed the streets of Tokyo without a care in the world. With her guitar, she could strip herself of her masks and liberate herself from the binds that tied her. Every chord, every note they created meant boundless freedom. It was the moment she could be away from the pain and the anguish, from the worries and the fears. Music was her haven, it was her refuge.

This time, the voice of the six-string was lower and less strident than usual. The guitar's usual partner in crime, the Marshall amp, hadn't been plugged in yet and the softer sound that emanated from the instrument and the audible clicking sound of the pick against the strings enhanced even more the intimate atmosphere at the club as the melody echoed through the darkened room. The sound of the guitar was quieter and so was too the voice of her mistress. Instead of the hard rock that had become Sekiria's trademark sound, their lead singer was currently favoring a blues-tinged strum of the guitar, her voice accompanying the tune not with words but by a haunting and soft humming. Her voice had a slightly huskier tone than usual, perhaps because she had skipped both vocal chord exercises to warm up and the lemon and honey brew that seemed to work wonders when her voice was about to fade. The pleasant result of her jamming made her nod in approval as she kept playing almost automatic, letting her instincts lead. Music wasn't just a way to make a living for her; it was something much more profound. For her, it was a need just as breathing or eating was; music was the vehicle that allowed her to face her true self. It was the outlet for her soul.

A trance-like moment befell the dark-haired singer. As if they had been etched in a corner of her conscience waiting for the moment to be sent free, ideas and sensations began to materialize on her mind. The electric impulses from her mind became words that began to slip from her lips with the vehemence and care of a priest uttering a prayer. Her lids slowly closed as her voice rose overflowing with the emotion, drenched in a passion so intense it made the temperature around her smolder with her intensity. At that instant of magic, nothing mattered, only the mystical connection she was able to establish through her music. She could barely sense her own voice rising, her hands gripping the guitar as a heartfelt, passionate song was being given birth to. For that brief instant she held the power of creation in her own hands. She already knew how power felt. Every time she donned her hardsuit she was granted power mere mortals could only wish for. She had tipped the balance between life and death in countless occasions. She had danced with danger at the edge of the blade with each battle and each deadly face-off with a rogue voomer. It wasn't for the heroics and the cult-following the Sabers had garnered through the web. Although the money was good, what she relished the most was the almost insane tendency of putting herself to the test in the ultimate battle, one that made her keenly aware of what being alive truly meant. She had soared like the wind with each leap to the open night sky. She had sensed what raw, unadulterated power was through the devastating impact of her fists and yet, none of those sensations could ever compare to the overwhelming emotions of being able to metamorphose mere ideas into something more concrete, into a language that could reach out and make an intimate, honest connection with her audience that came to be enthralled and seduced by the music she had created and now shared, with the part of herself that now became a gift to all. For Priss Asagiri, that's where true power resided.

Amber eyes flung open and the spell began to lift from her, leaving in its wake a tingling sensation that lingered over her skin for a while longer. A grin tugged from her lips as her eyes shimmered brightly. Her hands abandoned the strings and her arms came to the rest over the Fender's body. Her eyes lowered to her watch. Her bandmates should be arriving at any moment now and from then on the rest of the afternoon would be lost in the frenzy of the pre-show rehearsal. Priss stood up resting her guitar against the chair. A knowing look illuminated her cat-like eyes again. She could already sense the anticipation building up inside, the restlessness manifesting while striking a couple of her stage moves behind the mike. For when she stepped into the stage again tonight, bright lights full on with the vibration of the amps, the power of the drums, the pulse of the bass and the thunder of the guitars as her acolytes, she would be casting her spell on the audience all over again. It would be rapture all over again.

_Fin_


End file.
